On reaching the road, French returned to his clump of brushwood and
once more concealed himself. He was anxious to intercept Domlio before
he reached home and received the account of the afternoon’s
happenings. A question as to the man’s nocturnal activities would be
more effective were it unexpected.
Though French enjoyed moorland scenery, he had more than enough of
this particular view as he sat waiting for the colonel’s appearance.
Every time he heard a car he got up hopefully, only to turn back in
disappointment. Again and again he congratulated himself that he had
found a position which commanded the entrances of both front and back
drives, or he would have supposed that his quarry had eluded him. For
two hours he waited and then at last the green car hove in sight. He
stepped forward with upraised arm.
“Sorry to stop you, Colonel,” he said, pleasantly, “but I have had
some further information since I saw you and I wish to put another
question. Will you tell me, please, where exactly you took your car on
the night of the tragedy?”
The colonel was evidently taken aback, though not so much as French
had hoped.
“I thought I had explained that I wasn’t out on that night,” he
answered, with only a very slight pause.
“To be candid,” French rejoined, “that’s why I am so anxious to have
an answer to my question. If there was nothing in the trip which would
interest me, why should you try to hide it?”
“How do you know I was out?”
“You may take it from me, sir, that I am sure of my ground. But if you
don’t care to answer my question I shall not press it. In fact, I must
warn you that any answers you give me may be used against you in
evidence.”
In spite of evident efforts the colonel looked uneasy.
“What?” he exclaimed, squaring his shoulders. “Does this mean that you
really suppose I am guilty of the murder of Mr. Pyke?”
“It means this, Colonel Domlio. You’ve been acting in a suspicious way
and I want an explanation. I’m not making any charges, simply, I’ve
got to know. Whether you tell me now or not is a matter for yourself.”
“If I don’t tell you, does it mean that you will arrest me?”
“I don’t say so, but it may come to that.”
The colonel gave a mirthless laugh.
“Then I’m afraid I have no alternative. There is no mystery whatever
about my taking out the car that night and I have no objection to
telling you the whole thing.”
“But you denied that you had done so.”
“I did, and there I admit having made a foolish blunder. But my motive
in doing so must be obvious.”
“I’m afraid not so obvious as you seem to think. However, having
regard to my warning, if you care to answer my question I shall be
pleased to hear your statement.”
“I’ll certainly answer it. Possibly you know that I am interested in
entomology? I think I told you I was writing a book about the insects
of the moor?
“In order to get material for my book I make expeditions all over the
moor. I made one on that day of the tragedy. I went to a little valley
not far from Chagford where there are numbers of a certain kind of
butterfly of which I wanted some specimens for microscopic purposes.
While chasing one of these I had the misfortune to get a severe fall.
My foot went into a rabbit hole and I crashed, as the airmen say. I
was winded and it was some time before I could get up, but I was
thankful not to have broken my leg, as I might easily have done. That
put me off running for one day and I crawled back to the car and drove
home.
“I was feeling a bit shaken and I went up to bed early that night,
just before eleven. When I began to undress I found I had lost a
miniature which I always carry and which I value extremely, not so
much because of its intrinsic worth, but for sentimental reasons. Here
it is.”
He took a small gold object from his pocket and passed it across. It
was of a charming design, exquisitely chased and set with diamonds,
and French saw at once that it was of considerable value. It contained
the portrait of a woman—a beautiful haunting face, clear cut as a
cameo. The whole thing was a wonderful example of artistic skill.
“My late wife,” Colonel Domlio explained as he replaced it in his
pocket. “As you can imagine, I was distressed by the loss. I could
only account for it by supposing it had dropped out of my pocket when
I fell. I thought over it for some time and then I decided to go out
to the place then and there and have a look for it, lest some shepherd
or labourer might find it in the early morning. I did so. I took out
the car and a strong electric torch and went back, and on searching
the place where I fell I found it almost immediately. I came straight
back, arriving shortly after two. Does that satisfy you?”
“No,” said French. “Not until you explain why you denied having been
out when Sergeant Daw asked you.”
“That, as I have said, was a mistake. But you can surely understand my
motive. When I heard the sergeant’s story I recognised at once that my
having taken out the car was a very unfortunate thing for me. I felt
sure that foul play would sooner or later be suggested and I thought I
should be suspected. I couldn’t prove where I had been and I was
afraid I should not be believed when I explained.”
“I’m afraid that is not very clear. Why did you imagine that foul play
would be suspected?”
Domlio hesitated.
“I suppose,” he said at last, “things have gone so far there is no use
in trying to keep anything back. I knew that there was bad blood
between Berlyn and Pyke. The sergeant’s news at once suggested to me
that the trouble might have come to a head. I hoped not, of course,
but the idea occurred to me.”
“Even yet I don’t understand. What was the cause of the bad blood
between those two and how did you come to know of it?”
“Surely,” Domlio protested, “it is not necessary to go into that? I am
only accounting for my own actions.”
“It is necessary in order to account for your own actions.”
Domlio squared his shoulders.
“I don’t think I should tell you, only that, unfortunately, it is
pretty well common property. I hate dragging in a lady’s name, though
you have already done it, but the truth is that they had had a
misunderstanding about Mrs. Berlyn.”
“About Mrs. Berlyn?”
“Yes. She and Pyke saw rather too much of each other. I don’t for a
moment believe there was the slightest cause for jealousy, but Berlyn
was a bit exacting and he probably made a mountain out of a molehill.
I knew Mrs. Berlyn pretty well myself, and I am certain that Berlyn
had no real cause for complaint.”
“You haven’t explained how you came to know of the affair?”
“It was common property. I don’t think I can tell you where I first
heard of it.”
French considered for a moment.
“There is another thing, Colonel Domlio. You said that when you heard
the sergeant’s story you suspected the trouble between the two men had
come to a head?”
“Might have come to a head. Yes.”
“Suppose it had. Why, then, did you fear that the sergeant might have
suspected you?”
Again Domlio hesitated.
“That is a nasty question, Inspector,” he said at last, “but from what
you asked me in my study you might guess the answer. As a matter of
fact, I had myself seen a good deal of Mrs. Berlyn for some time
previously. About this there was nothing in the slightest degree
compromising. All through we were merely friends. Not only that, but
Berlyn knew of our meetings and excursions. When he could he shared
them, and he had not the slightest objection to our intimacy. But Daw
wouldn’t know that. For all I could tell, the excellent scandalmongers
of the district had coupled Mrs. Berlyn’s name with mine. Berlyn was
dead and gone and he could not state his views. My word would not be
believed, nor Mrs. Berlyn’s, neither, if she were dragged into it. I
thought, at all events, I had better keep secret a mysterious
excursion which might easily be misunderstood.”
Not very convincing, French thought, as he rapidly considered what the
colonel had told him. However, it _might_ be true. At all events, he
had no evidence to justify an arrest. He therefore pretended that he
fully accepted the statement, and, wishing the colonel a cheery good
evening, stood aside to let the car pass.
As he cycled slowly into Ashburton he kept turning over in his mind
the question of whether there was any way in which he could test the
truth of Colonel Domlio’s statement. Frankly, he did not believe the
story. But unbelief was no use to him. He must prove it true or false.
All the evening he puzzled over the problem, then at last he saw that
there was a line of research which, though it might not solve the
point in question, yet bade fair to be of value to the enquiry as a
whole.
Once again it concerned a time-table—this time for Domlio’s presumed
movements. Assume that Berlyn and Pyke reached the point at which the
car was abandoned about 11.30. To convince Pyke of the _bona fides_ of
the breakdown, Berlyn would have to spend some time over the engine,
say fifteen minutes. In the dark they could scarcely have reached
Torview in less than another fifteen; say that by the time Domlio had
admitted them it was close on midnight. Some time would then be
consumed in explaining the situation and in getting out the car; in
fact, the party could scarcely have left Torview before 12.10. Running
to the works would have occupied the most of another half hour; say
arrive 12.40. Domlio reached his home about 2.10, which, allowing half
an hour for the return journey, left an hour unaccounted for. In this
hour Pyke’s murder must have been committed, the duplicator taken to
pieces and the parts left in the store, fresh tea put into Gurney’s
flask, Pyke’s clothes and the small parts of the duplicator got rid
of, and the magneto on Berlyn’s car changed.
French wondered if all these things could have been done in the time.
At last, after working out a detailed time-table, he came to the
conclusion that they could, on one condition: that the clothes and
duplicator parts were got rid of on the way to Torview; that is, if no
time were lost in making a detour.
Where, then, could this have been done?
French took his map and considered the route. The Dart River was
crossed three times and a part of the way lay through woods. But he
believed that too many tourists strayed from the road for these to be
safe hiding-places, though he realised that they might have to be
searched later.
There remained two places, either of which he thought more
promising—the works and Domlio’s grounds.
The fact that elaborate arrangements had been made to get Pyke’s body
away from the works indicated that the disposal of it there was
considered impossible. Nevertheless, French spent the next day, which
was Sunday, prowling about the buildings, though without result.
This left Domlio’s little estate, and early the following morning
French borrowed the sergeant’s bicycle and rode out to his former
hiding-place outside the gates. History repeated itself, for after
waiting for nearly two hours he saw Domlio pass out towards Ashburton.
As the car had not been heard by either Coombe or Mee on the night of
the tragedy, it followed that it had almost certainly entered by the
back drive. French now walked up this lane to the yard, looking for
hiding-places. But there were none.
He did not see any of the servants about and he stood in the yard,
pondering over his problem. Then his glance fell on the old well, and
it instantly occurred to him that here was the very kind of place he
was seeking. There was an old wheel pump beside it, rusty and
dilapidated, working a rod to the plunger below. He imagined the well
was not used, for on his last visit he had noticed a well-oiled force
pump a hundred yards away at the kitchen door.
The well was surrounded by a masonry wall about three feet high, coped
with roughly dressed stones. On the coping was a flat wooden grating,
old and decaying. Ivy covered about half of the wall and grating.
French crossed the yard and, leaning over the wall, glanced down. The
sides were black with age and he could distinguish no details of the
walls, but there was a tiny reflection from the water far below. Then
suddenly he noticed a thing which once again set him off into a
ferment of delight.
The cross-bars of the grating were secured by mortar into niches cut
in the stone. All of these bore signs of recent movement.
Satisfied that he had at last solved his problem, French quietly left
the yard and, recovering his bicycle, rode back to the police station
at Ashburton.
“I want your help, Sergeant,” he said as Daw came forward. “Can you
get some things together and come out with me to Colonel Domlio’s
to-night?”
“Of course, Mr. French.”
“Good. Then I want a strong fishing-line and some hooks and some
twenty-five or thirty yards of strong cord. I should like also a
candle-burning lantern and, of course, your electric torch. I want to
try an experiment.”
“I’ll have all those ready.”
“I want to be there when there’s no one about, so, as the Colonel sits
up very late, I think we’ll say three o’clock. That means we ought to
leave here about one-fifteen. Can you borrow a second bicycle?”
The sergeant looked completely mystified by these instructions, but he
answered, “Certainly,” without asking any questions. It was agreed
that they should meet in the evening at his house, sitting up there
until it was time to start.
Having explained at the hotel that he had to go to Plymouth and would
be away all night, French started out for a tramp on the moor. About
eleven he turned up at Daw’s cottage, and there the two men spent the
next couple of hours smoking and chatting.
Shortly before three they reached Torview. They hid their bicycles in
the brushwood and walked softly up the back drive to the yard. The
night was fine and calm, but the sky was overcast and it was very
dark. Not a sound broke the stillness.
Silently they reached the well, and French, with his electric torch,
examined the wooden cover.
“I think if we lift together we can get it up,” he whispered. “Try at
this side and use the ivy as a hinge.”
They raised it easily and French propped it with a billet of wood.
“Now, Sergeant, the fishing line.”
At the sergeant’s cottage they had tied on a bunch of hooks and a
weight. French now let these down, having passed the line through one
of the holes in the grating to ensure its swinging free from the
walls. Gradually he paid out the cord until a faint plop announced
that the water had been reached. He continued lowering as long as the
cord would run out; then he began jerking it slowly up and down.
“Swing it from side to side, Sergeant, while I keep jerking it. If
there’s anything there we should get it.”
For twenty minutes they worked, and then, just as French was coming to
the conclusion that a daylight descent into the well would be
necessary, the hooks caught. Something of fair weight was on the line.
“Let it stay till it stops swinging, or else we shall lose the hooks
in the wall, Mr. French,” the sergeant advised, now as keenly
interested as was French himself.
“Right, Sergeant. The water will soon steady it.”
After a few seconds, French began to pull slowly up, the drops from
the attached object echoing loudly up the long funnel. And then came
into the circle of the sergeant’s torch a man’s coat.
It was black and sodden and shapeless from the water, and slimy to the
touch. They lifted it round the well so that the wall should be
between them and the house and examined it with their electric
torches.
In the breast pocket was a letter case containing papers, but it was
impossible to read anything they bore. A pipe, a tobacco pouch, a box
of matches, and a handkerchief were in the other pockets.
Fortunately for French, there was a tailor’s tab sewn into the lining
of the breast pocket and he was able to make out part of the legend:
“R. Shrubsole & Co., Newton Abbot.” Beneath was a smudge which had
evidently been the owner’s name, but this was undecipherable.
“We’ll get it from the tailor,” French said. “Let’s try the hooks
again.”
Once again they lowered their line, but this time without luck.
“No good,” French declared at last. “We’ll have to pump it out. You
might get the depth, and then close up and leave it as we found it.
We’d better bring a portable pump, for I don’t suppose that old thing
will work.”
They replaced the grating and the billet of wood, and stealing
silently out of the yard, rode back to Ashburton.
With the coat wrapped in paper and packed in his suitcase, French took
an early bus to Newton Abbot. There he soon found Messrs. Shrubsole’s
establishment and asked for the proprietor.
“It’s not easy to say whose it was,” Mr. Shrubsole declared when he
had examined the coat. “You see, these labels of ours are printed—that
is, our name and address. But the customer’s name is written and it
would not last in the same way. I’m afraid I cannot read it.”
“If it had been possible to read it, I should not have come to you,
Mr. Shrubsole. I want you to get at it from the cloth and size and
probable age and things of that kind. You can surely find out all
those things by examination.”
This appeared to be a new idea to Mr. Shrubsole. He admitted that
something of the kind might be done, and calling an assistant, fell to
scrutinising the garment.
“It’s that brown tweed with the purple line that we sold so much of
last year,” the assistant declared. He produced a roll of cloth. “See,
if we lift the lining here it shows clear enough.”
“That’s right,” his employer admitted. “Now can we get the
measurements?”
“Not so easy,” said the assistant. “The thing will be all warped and
shrunk from the water.”
“Try,” French urged, with his pleasant smile.
An orgy of measuring followed, with a subsequent recourse to the books
and much low-voiced conversation. Finally Mr. Shrubsole announced the
result.
“It’s not possible to say for sure, Mr. French. You see, the coat is
shrunk out of all knowing. But we think it might belong to one of four
men.”
“I see your difficulty, Mr. Shrubsole, but if you tell me the four it
may help me.”
“I hope so. We sold suits of about this size to Mr. Albert Cunningham
of Twenty-seven, Acacia Street, Newton Abbot; Mr. John Booth of
Lyndhurst, Teignmouth; Mr. Stanley Pyke, of East Street, Ashburton;
and Mr. George Hepworth, of Linda Lodge, Newton Abbot. Any of those
any good to you?” Mr. Shrubsole’s expression suddenly changed. “By
Jove! You’re not the gentleman that’s been making these discoveries
about Mr. Berlyn and Mr. Pyke? We’ve heard some report that some
Scotland Yard man was down and had found out that that tragedy was not
all it was supposed to be. That it, sir?”
“That’s it,” French replied, feeling that it was impossible to keep
his business private. “But I don’t want it talked about. Now you see
why I should like to be sure whether that was or was not Mr. Pyke’s
coat.”
But in spite of the tailor’s manifest interest, he declared that the
point could not be established. He was fairly sure that it belonged to
one of the four, but more than that he could not say.
But French had no doubt whatever, and, well pleased with his progress,
he left the shop and took the first bus back to Ashburton.